I slipped a saint in your drink
with rosewater, a splash of lime
and I added a ray of moonlight
for good measure, because I know
how much you dislike bitterness.
Bitterness and salt, like your mom
has for dinner on the seventh day
of every new mooncycle,
coinciding with that strange position
of the stars that dance a boogie
in your bottomless eyes.
Let’s toast to wicker chairs and
taking life at a tortoise’ pace,
basking whales in the sunset
drinking brown rum and eating
nothing but each other’s sweet love.